I used to be quite fit
As a kid, I ran a lot, and enjoyed athletics. As an adult, I got out of the habit, but for a few years in my late twenties/early thirties, I was a regular gym goer.

I’d sweat and strain profusely as I did valiant battle with the treadmill, cross trainer, upright and reclined exercise bikes, and rowing machine. I wrestled with weights, remembering to breathe properly and use slow, deliberate movements like I had been instructed. I even partook in an exercise class, which I found I quite enjoyed. But mostly, I found going to the gym a chore, to be honest, but one that I felt duty bound to endure if I didn’t want to end up a bloated caricature of my former svelt twenty-something self. Fuelled partly by the knowledge that paying £35 a month or whatever it was, and then not using the facilities was a bit like buying a decent bottle of champagne once a month and then pouring it straight down the toilet, I persevered. For about three years, and four times a week, I’d dutifully toddle off to indulge in a 90 minute session of lung and limb torture, confident in the knowledge that it was doing me some good.

And then I injured myself, resulting in a nine month lay-off.

Did I break a leg trying to keep up with the speed on the treadmill, failing miserably and falling off? Did I sustain severe muscle strain as a result of being over ambitious on the weights? Did I, in fact, cause irreparable damage to my testicles following an unlikely altercation with a rowing machine?

No. I got pissed and stepped awkwardly off a kerb whilst wearing a pair of Cuban heeled boots. Ripped my Achilles tendon, but didn’t realise this was what had happened and spent the next few months hobbling around on it in agony before being eventually persuaded to go to the see the doctor who more or less called me a stupid twat for not getting it checked out earlier.

I haven’t been to the gym since, apart from an ill fated attempt a couple of years ago to rejoin with the missus and make an effort to go. I managed two sessions, and one of those was the induction.
( Davros' Granddad a voice of calm reason in a world of spastics., Fri 10 Jul 2009, 13:06, 8 replies)

Ouchy!
That's the one injury I dread more than anything...
(Bicycle Repairman "you're also a bit of a wanker", Fri 10 Jul 2009, 13:53, closed)

It really did hurt
But being a northern type I didn't want to bother the quack with something as trivial as a 'sore ankle'.

It took 9 months and a long hike in the countryside where I ended up nearly crawling the last mile back to the car that persuaded me to have a rethink.
( Davros' Granddad a voice of calm reason in a world of spastics., Fri 10 Jul 2009, 14:00, closed)

"Being a northern type"
No doubt "treatment" involved several pints of ale and being beaten by the missus when you got home!

An old colleague snapped his playing squash and spent 3 months wearing a foot-brace. Ouchy!
(Bicycle Repairman "you're also a bit of a wanker", Fri 10 Jul 2009, 14:06, closed)

It's uncanny
Are you a mind reader or something?
( Davros' Granddad a voice of calm reason in a world of spastics., Fri 10 Jul 2009, 14:14, closed)

Back when I played squash...
Was watching a mate of mine playing in a tourny game. He made a lunge for the ball, and we heard this "CRACK!" sound. He turned around to berate the other chap for what he was sure was said chap belting him in the leg... but he was on the other side of the court.

Then he fell over.

o_O
(Scritty Bakerman., Fri 10 Jul 2009, 23:22, closed)

Ouch

( Davros' Granddad a voice of calm reason in a world of spastics., Sat 11 Jul 2009, 12:15, closed)

You're an idiot
for not getting it checked out sooner, but an idiot who wears sexy boots.
I guess it evens out.
(berk, Fri 10 Jul 2009, 14:15, closed)

Why thank you, ma'am

( Davros' Granddad a voice of calm reason in a world of spastics., Fri 10 Jul 2009, 14:17, closed)